


It's Not That Bad

by eruthiel



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: 1980s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Domestic, Facial Hair, M/M, Mental Breakdown, New Labour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruthiel/pseuds/eruthiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angsty, plotless little bits of domestic Mandelbell, 1985-6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not That Bad

Exhausted, Peter sank onto the staircase and put his face in his hands. His feet ached and his ears rang and he longed for a deep, peaceful bath - but there was still work to be done and dinner to be made. The stairs needed hoovering, had done for months. The living room door was ajar and from where he sat Peter could see that morning's empty crisp packets and Carling cans abandoned so carelessly it could only be a deliberate attempt to wind him up. A year ago, Peter would have rolled his eyes in fond exasperation; a few months back he might have hit the roof. Today it was all he could do to sigh in acknowledgement of the mess.

Dragging himself to his feet once more, Peter turned to the far end of the hallway and trudged into the kitchen, where sure enough his most beloved millstone was hunched over at the table surrounded by enough news to repaper the hall. Alastair gave a nod and a low grunt of acknowledgement when Peter came in. He didn't look up from his reading until Peter had been demanding it for almost a minute; when they finally made eye contact, Peter saw that he was out of focus and horribly bloodshot. He didn't deserve any sympathy, but Peter's heavy heart sank a little nonetheless.

"What's the matter?" demanded Alastair, blinking up at his partner's scowling features. "You don't look great. Your dream job not turning out the way you expected, sweetheart?"

Peter sighed with frustration, but felt his half-hearted resentment towards the younger man start to give way as clumsy but genuinely concerned hands wrapped around his hips and pulled him into Alastair's lap. "It's nothing," Peter muttered, running his fingers through thick auburn hair as Alastair nuzzled at his throat. "You're right, work isn't getting any less stressful. And you don't help much either, stupid lump." A single kiss to Alastair's forehead was all Peter could muster. "You could at least tidy up after breakfast, or when you get home. That living room is a pigsty and it only would have taken you a minute to clear it all away."

"And it'll take you even less than a minute," shrugged Alastair, still squeezing Peter's sore body. "But maybe tea first? I'm starving."

It wasn't worth arguing. Peter buried his head in Alastair's shoulder and exhaled a long, tired, broken breath of agreement.

Unfazed, Alastair shuffled the skinny man around on his knee until he was facing the table, then reached out with a free hand for the bottle resting on his _Guardian._ He overshot and it tumbled to its side, bright red drink staining the newspaper in a steadily expanding pool. "Fuck." Suddenly animate again, Peter leapt from Alastair's lap to right the bottle and gather up the affected areas, to separate them from what was salvageable. "Fucking hell, Alastair," he groaned, bunching the ruined papers together and dropping them into the bin, "just what is wrong with you? You shouldn't even have been drinking at this time in the evening."

For a moment, Alastair seemed ashamed, then snapped into defensive mode. "If you'd been here to cook sooner, I wouldn't have."

"Okay," Peter sneered, turning away, "it's all my fault, is it? I let you down. I should have been at home in the kitchen instead of out working to pay your bills - is that how you want it?" Peter was back in the hallway now, kicking off his shoes as he called through: "If I packed it in and stuck around all day to keep an eye on you, then would you be happy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," countered Alastair, still glued to the same chair. His arms were crossed and he seemed to be folding in on himself.

When Peter returned to the kitchen he had removed his jacket and tie, and his feet in their tangerine socks poked out from his too-short suit trousers. His hair was unwashed and he was too weary to be angry. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," he sighed, voice no longer raised but thin and fragile, "Oh, Alastair, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight." Then he was a ragdoll again, slumping down in his own chair, kneading his eye sockets with the balls of his hands. "I don't know what's come over me," he breathed, repeating his apology _ad nauseum_ with his shoulders trembling and voice becoming ever more incoherent. "I don't mean it, really, I don't. I've just had such a hard day and I - I -"

As much as Alastair didn't like to see his boyfriend distressed, he found it very difficult to know when and what level of comfort was appropriate. This could be a pat on the arm moment, or a kiss on the neck moment, or an 'I'll always be here for you' moment - but, as Peter sat hunched over and sniffling into his hands, Alastair preferred to view this as a new bottle moment. He got slowly to his feet and made his way over to where a lumpy carrier bag sat on the kitchen side, pulled out the first bottle he touched and set it down in front of Peter's trembling form along with an almost-clean glass. "Here you go," he offered awkwardly, but Peter ignored him. Shuffling back into his seat and glancing around for the corkscrew, Alastair continued: "Do you want to talk about it? Did something happen at work?" A tiny pause, then an equally small shake of the head. "Do you need me to have a word with Neil?"

At that Peter's face snapped up and he frowned, his ruffled moustache a dark streak against the white of his skin. "No."

"Okay, I just thought if he was overworking you... you're properly upset, even I can see that. Maybe you _should_ think about packing it in..."

"No," Peter insisted, retrieving the corkscrew from the remaining pages and handing it to a grateful Alastair, "I may complain but I'm actually really enjoying the work, honestly. It's difficult to keep going but I believe in what we're doing and Neil is a - a good leader." He waved a hand, trying to seem dismissive. "I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, really, dear."

Snorting softly, Alastair filled his glass and knocked it back before turning to Peter. "In that case, stop whining and get tea on."

* * *

It was not the first time Peter had fallen asleep alone only to wake up with Alastair draped across him like a hairy extra blanket. Concerned, he pulled himself further up on the pillows and turned to inspect his dozing partner's face in the morning light: Alastair was frowning in his sleep, but perfectly peaceful. One of his hands had slipped down to from Peter's hip to his knee and his breath stank of alcohol.

Peter felt an unexpected jolt of relief go through him when he felt that rank breath on his fingertips, and he realised to his own dismay that he'd been half expecting to find the other body cold and lifeless. Its solid weight, once so reassuring, now seemed only smothering and scary.

Now that the tendrils of his bad dreams were starting to retreat in the face of a new day, Peter had to consciously remind himself to enjoy the subsequent sense of calm and safety. Lately, enjoyment hadn't been coming as naturally as it once had - while he found satisfaction in his career, to an extent, there was constantly something niggling away at the back of his mind. Some part that had to ask: is this all I deserve? Outwardly he celebrated his role in the new Labour Party, of course he did, and he wouldn't dream of leaving Alastair, but deep down Peter was beginning to wish he could just wash it all away and start over. Sighing, he clung to the sleeping body of his lover and tried not to think about the same old rows that would erupt when he awoke, the hungover bitching and drinking and bickering over nothing. While Alastair was still dreaming and passive, Peter could almost believe that everything was okay. He had all day to deal with reality. Why shouldn't he enjoy his fantasy while he had the chance?

"I love you," Peter murmured, kissing Alastair's slightly open mouth and pulling back immediately. "No matter what you become. I love you so much."

There was a gentle stirring, and Alastair growled something in response. Peter shushed him with another kiss, to the hand this time, picking it up from his own leg and pressing it to his lips before clasping it to his chest. The alarm clock was still shrieking its four shrill pips, but both men had long since learned to tune it out if necessary. As far as they were concerned, this was as close as it came to a relaxing lie-in, and close enough for now to a gesture of mutual affection.

This morning, however, they could scarcely afford these few stolen seconds together. They had to pack their bags and be presentable on time for the plane that would take them to Scotland - Peter in his capacity as Director of Communications, Alastair on behalf of _Today_ \- and the very idea of moving filled Peter with dread. His limbs felt like they were made of stone, his clouded mind like it hadn't benefited in the least from his few hours of tortured sleep.

Alastair was opening his eyes now, squinting unimpressed at the tousled smaller man squashed between him and the wall. They didn't bother talking.

* * *

"Please, I've got to go!" Raised voices, passionate but indistinct, and then the plea again: "Please, I've got to go to him! He needs me!"

A door buried at the far end of the corridor burst open and a young man staggered out as if pushed, wiping his eyes on a sleeve. The door slammed behind him. Taking a moment to try to calm himself, Peter blinked the tears of shock and fear from his lashes and drew himself to his full height, glaring around in case any other hotel residents had glimpsed his moment of indignity. He glanced at the door but decided not to bother - he had something more important, oh, so much more important than his boss' speech to deal with.

When Peter reached the room he'd meant to share with Alastair, he found the bed made and the minibar empty. Covering his face with his hands, he forced himself to stay focused and not get too bogged down in his own guilt - it didn't matter now that he'd failed to stop things before they got out of hand. All that mattered was that they had, and he needed to figure out how to deal with it. Quickly, he rifled through their suitcases and shoved anything and everything that would fit into his briefcase, then forced it shut with an unhealthy snap.

Lifting the case with both hands, Peter swallowed hard. He found himself staring through the window at the concrete building shoved up immediately next to this one. If he craned his neck, he could just about see the violet evening sky - but it was far easier to keep gazing into the grey. Peter could understand how a man might fall into that habit until he forgot that the sky was there at all. Lifting his chin with more courage than he really felt, he marched from the room and set out to order himself a taxi to the hospital.


End file.
